The King of Clovers
by Road of Ruin
Summary: Human AU oneshot. Alfred supposed selling guns to the Russian mafia wasn't the best career choice ever but even at the end he cant find it in himself to regret any of it. RusAme


(A/N: Hello all… Road to Ruin here. Please enjoy this little RusAme oneshot, my first time writing this pair I love so much. Any and all reviews/feedback are greatly appreciated.)

Fandom: _Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hetalia: World Series_

Rated: T

Pairing: mafia!Ivan x Alfred

* * *

><p><strong>The King of Clovers<strong>

The room is dark when they walk in, a single table and two chairs lit up in the center by a hanging fluorescent light. A rug is stretched underneath over the wooden floor, a pointlessly fashionable addition to the room that does nothing but waste space, an obvious fashion over function that is growing more and more faded with each cleaning session its put through. But no one seems to care about the vanishing colors as long as the blood is washed out eventually.

Five television screens flicker against an unseen wall, hanging in a squashed sort of pyramid, three on top, two on bottom. Frowning half-faces of businessmen in nice suits and thick stacks of rolled green bills come in and out of focus when they are stopped just beyond the doorway, the lights from the hallway creating a path towards their fate while a man, impeccably dressed in an all-black suit, grabs the card in the Russian's pocket. The King of Hearts, forever with the sword through his head, disappears quickly as the man walks by them to shut the door. The mouths of the men on the wall sneer in delight.

Alfred sits obediently in the chair he is directed to, smirking slightly as his feet are bound to the front legs, a sad show to the assumption that the two waiting to die are unwilling to be here, that they will not play with dead grins on their faces and shoot themselves without complaint.

He stares at Ivan while the Russian is too restrained, his ever-present smile never faltering when he meets Alfred's gaze and holds it, humming slightly to himself while he folds his hands in his lap, ready for the game to begin. They had made peace with this long ago; their decisions had always led to this place. Alfred chuckles, bemused, at that thought and Ivan laughs quietly too, sharing in with the joke until they both sound completely mad.

"The Boss has made the game clear," the well-dressed man suddenly says, stepping away from the chairs to address them and the TV screens, flashing the King of Hearts he had taken. Alfred can see the bright black 'X' crossing over the King's face. "Classic Roulette: one bullet, one spin."

He pulls a 6-round revolver from under his suit, cocking out the chamber and neatly sliding a single bullet in.

"First Round starts now. Please place your bets."

* * *

><p>Alfred had loved his job. Working with guns for a living had been, hands-down, one of the best decisions he had ever made for himself. Every gun he placed in his hands was a treasure, one he got to play with whenever he wanted to with whomever he chose, and damn, was he good at it.<p>

Gun-smithing was the only thing his father had bothered to teach him before walking out on him the day he graduated from high school. His father had always been a lousy bastard, Alfred had thought, so his disappearance was an almost welcome adjustment as he learned how to fend for himself. The inheritance that was left to him hadn't been half bad either.

His few friends had all thought he was nuts when he used the money to buy a shop and fill up three of the four walls with guns and ammunition. They'd all expected him to go to a nice college, get a higher education, and make something of himself with pen and paper and brains. But Alfred would be the first to admit he didn't have much smarts (and he admitted this often) and taking tests and doing homework was nothing if not yawn-worthy. He was a simple man, all things considered, and with ten thousand dollars he'd set out to make a name for himself by his own merits and talents, with sweat and tears and lots of swearing, shaping his store and honing his skills until they reached something he'd been proud of.

And for two years, he'd built up his shop, _The Golden Eagle, _hung up his nation's colors, ordered in the best of what current-day warfare had to offer, and advertised his skills to anyone with a legal permit. Hunters were the first customers, as was typical of a standard-sized town in Nevada, then the military started taking an interest and wherever the military was concerned, cops would follow, and of course, due to the natural order of killers in the world, legal or not (at least in America), the mafia came calling soon after.

The Italians had been first, a large, tight-nit family known as Vargas. They'd favored more old-school weaponry, preferring the type of guns that got you close-and-personal with the one you were going to kill. The Vargas family had had a lot of enemies and so had been wary of everyone, but Alfred had won them over with his bright smile and cheery attitude, making easy friends with the youngest son of the mafia head. It hadn't been long before pounds of ammunition and piles of Benjamin's stacked up neatly on Alfred's countertop as well as bowls of pasta and freshly baked pizzas that filled his entire shop with a mouth-watering scent. Alfred had liked the Vargas's immensely since they paid well and gave him food, and for a good five months, the Vargas's and their affiliates had been his most abundant and wealthy customers.

But the mafia world wasn't without its wolves either. When the Italian families started fighting with each other over whatever mafia families bickered about – Alfred had never been stupid enough to ask – he'd started seeing less and less of the Vargas family and more of the lesser known groups in the area. Not that he minded much of course. Money was money no matter how you looked at it; smelt the same, felt the same, worth the same no matter who gave it to you; business was business as long as guns were sold and customers flowed. And business had certainly been booming for Alfred.

It wasn't until Ivan walked into his store that fateful spring morning that Alfred realized just how thin and dangerous a line he'd been treading. But by the time he had figured that out, he'd already fallen too far to be saved.

* * *

><p>The sound of money rustling over the screens to his left are drowned out by the sound of the chamber snapping back into place and the <em>whirr<em> it makes as it's expertly spun. Alfred meets Ivan's eyes once again only to find the hit-man is still smiling in that empty, hidden way of his, focusing on nothing but Alfred with a sort of calm only years of killing could bring. Still, the American can't help but laugh as the gun is placed on the table and he leans back in his chair, trying to get comfortable against the unforgiving surface.

"Having second thoughts?" he asks, grinning wide, as though this was all his idea and he had some sort of control over what was happening.

_"Nyet,"_ Ivan says, as cool as ever. His violet eyes flicker briefly to the man between them when he tosses a coin, leaving fate to decide who would go first, before he is smiling at Alfred once again, and the gunsmith notices there is a hint of almost-tenderness creeping into the look. He too softens when the gun is placed in his hand.

"If you'd have told me a year ago I'd be here, I'd have shot you right on the spot," Alfred jokes at the irony, pulling back the hammer of the gun. Ivan regards him with an amused glance.

"Maybe that would've been better, _da?"_ he counters, tilting his head. "Then you would not be here at all."

The revolver is a familiar weight in his hands, a bit old-school for his tastes, but Alfred immediately puts it to his temple with a careless shrug. He can feel the heaviness towards the handle of the gun and knows the bullet will not kill him yet. He sighs as he pulls the trigger, though if it is out of disappointment or relief, he doesn't know.

* * *

><p>The morning Ivan walked into his store had been warm and bright, the sky full and blue without a cloud to be seen. The last fingers of winter had finally lost their hold and Alfred had heard birds singing when he'd flipped the <em>Sorry We're Closed <em>sign on the door so it read _Just Kiddin' Fuckers ~ We're Open! _instead. He had felt that it would be a good day, and there had been a hopeful bounce to his step as he readied his shop for customers.

Ivan had been the first person to walk in, broad-shouldered and awkwardly tall as he shouldered his way in through the front door. He'd looked adorably out of place, his round face childlike and inquisitive as he smiled at the deadly weapons laying in wait on the walls surrounding them. His tannish-white trench coat and matching hair color and pale skin had brought to mind a snowman for Alfred, a vision that had made him snigger uncontrollably behind the counter, easily drawing Ivan's attention.

His eyes had been stunning, to say the least, the first time Alfred had seen them, such a violent shade of violet the American had caught his breath. The way they took in everything, a sinister sort of glee glinting in the irises whenever they caught the light, gave one the impression of being unable to hide even though all you wanted to do was run. They were eyes that had seen the evils of the world and danced despite the shadow looming overhead.

The man had been grinning widely at the time, an innocent gesture suddenly darkened by the way he gazed, directly, intently, and focused. Alfred had swallowed thickly, a sense of dread pricking at the back of his mind to be scrutinized so completely, and somehow he had known that Ivan was one of those wolves the mafia feared the most, silent killers for hire that had seen so much death and blood by their own hands they forgot how to do anything but smile like children waiting eagerly for Christmas to come.

Alfred had shivered as he forced a smile.

"Morning friend. What's your pleasure?"

Ivan had regarded him carefully before giving a small laugh, so cold it chilled the air and for a moment Alfred thought he saw the man's breath turning to a mist of ice before his eyes.

"Morning comrade," had been his response, voice thick around his Russian accent, tone low and soft. "I've been told you are a specialist of arms, _da?"_

"Depends on who's asking," Alfred grinned, amused by the statement the other had turned into an inquiry. "I'm gonna take a wild guess here now… Russian mafia?"

It hadn't really been a question and Ivan had known it but chose to look surprised when he caught onto the sarcasm the American had thrown his way.

"Oh, so you've heard of us then?" Ivan had asked before chuckling at the small joke they'd created together. "That is good news. Saves me the trouble of explaining things _da?"_

The way he'd spoken had charmed Alfred and as he settled into the business deal he'd found himself relaxing, strangely drawn to the way the Russian man talked in that strange way of his, curiosity growing with every sentence Ivan easily converted into a question. It had been wonderfully strange and new, and when Ivan slid a decent pile of Benjamin's across the counter, Alfred had offered him his purchases as well as a handshake.

"Name's Alfred F. Jones," he'd smirked, doing a victory dance in his head when the Russian had hesitantly squeezed his fingers back.

"Ivan… just Ivan." His soft words had made Alfred frown, despite the thrill he got when Ivan didn't release his grip right away. It wasn't everyday a known killer willingly shook your hand.

"Just Ivan?" the American had started but stopped himself when the Russian started to look uncomfortable. He'd always been a man of tact as well as a businessman. It would've been no good to frighten off a potential customer, especially when that customer was as powerful as the man had seemed to be. "Alright then 'Just Ivan', please come back and see me again."

The words had surprised him, slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. Ivan had looked just about as dumbfounded as he'd felt but had given a faint nod before finally letting their joined hands fall.

"…I am currently working for the mafia known as the Organization," Ivan had said then and something hidden in his face seemed to show itself, just slightly. Alfred watched, transfixed, as the tall Russian dug into the pockets of his trench coat, retrieving a small card and handing it over. Alfred had fingered it, bemused when he recognized the figure.

"Your calling card is the King of Clubs?" he'd grinned, raising an eyebrow. "Do you beat people with a club then?"

"Actually, I prefer faucet pipes," he'd coughed, honest and awkward, drawing a laugh from the American.

"Well now, that's one I haven't heard," Alfred had hummed, noting the hastily inked in numbers written underneath the King's frame. "This your phone number, King of Clubs?"

Ivan shuffled his feet, looking away briefly. _"Da…_ but please, do refrain from calling me that."

Alfred had bit his lip, wondering if he'd gone to far. Ivan had caught his look and, to his pleasant surprise, hastened to explain.

"Please do not be misunderstanding… it is just, well, the King of Clubs is just too strong a title for me _da?_ And you know, once upon a time, _it was the King of Clovers instead."_

The American, for once, hadn't had a decent answer to that one so could only smile softly in response. His look had made the Russian's awkward shuffling worse and so, with an almost shy nod of farewell, Ivan had hefted the briefcase full of new guns over his shoulder and silently stalked out, leaving Alfred to slump over the counter when his lungs had decided to finally work properly again.

The exchange had excited him more than it should have, and it was puzzling and dazzling all at once. Alfred had always been told to fit in with everyone his age so he'd always tried to stand out. His father told him the first train to success was the same train everyone else with loaded pockets was on and up until his graduation day Alfred had ridden that train. Then he'd found himself suddenly alone at the railway station and free to switch tracks to a train going the opposite way he'd been headed. Such was his natural tendency.

And that train, he'd started to believe, had led him to Ivan.

* * *

><p><em>Click-click.<em>

The empty chamber fires, the sound echoing through the room. There is a collective displeasure across the TV screens and the rustling of money as another round of bets is placed. Nonplussed, he keeps his eyes fixated on Ivan and slides the gun across the table towards the Russian who raises a pale eyebrow at him.

"Your luck still stands I see," Ivan laughs, hefting the gun easily into his big hand. "But I am wondering, how long will it last?"

Alfred only shrugs again, watching the gunman carefully. Even after a year, the changes in the Russian are subtle at best, he muses with a smile. Ivan is still as pale as ever, with his preference for light-colored suits and fair complexion making him look as though he is always expecting a snow storm to disappear into. His large frame is compensated for by his quietness and surprisingly childish love for spring and sunflowers. His usual smiles are empty; his real smiles small and rare, and the violet of his eyes still dance, mocking in the face of death.

They are so different, Alfred sees as Ivan levels the gun, and yet so alike. American born and raised, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Alfred had always tried his best to stand out in both action and thought throughout his twenty-one years of life. Exuberant at his best, obnoxious at his worst, his pleasure lay in working guns, knowing them inside and out, counting bullets as brothers and cleaning barrels like lovers. He made friends with ease and enemies even easier. He loved bending the rules and tiptoeing around the law, though he had to admit now that selling guns to the Russian mafia probably hadn't been the smartest career choice he could've made.

This was all his fault, Alfred had to be honest with himself. He had been the one to pursue the hit man so relentlessly in the first place, not understanding fully why Ivan had drawn his interest so effortlessly. He had always been persistent to a fault some would say, and Russian mafia hit men were no exception.

By their second meeting, Alfred had claimed him as a friend. His proclamation had surprised the Russian greatly who later admitted he hadn't able to make friends at all in the entirety of his full twenty-five years, save for his sisters who were, as Ivan shuddered to call them, _weird._ Alfred was his first friend, he'd said with a small, tiny grin, and it was a position Alfred carried with pride, perhaps too much, so it came as no surprise to him that he'd ended up here because of a relationship deemed too dangerous to keep alive any longer. It had just been a matter of time. In dealing hands, he knows they could both kill and destroy with a smile and a well-aimed shot, though, as he watches Ivan place the revolver to his temple, Alfred is positive the Russian is definitely the master at the elimination game.

"Holding your breath, _solnyshko?"_ Ivan chuckles lowly, a tiny grin on his face. Alfred nearly glows when he recognizes one of the many nicknames Ivan had given him over the year they'd had together: _sunshine._ No one else seems to catch the tenderness in the other's voice and the American feels a mad rush of hilarity at their ignorance as Ivan cocks the hammer back and fires.

_Click-click._

"Nah," Alfred smirks, twirling the revolver on his fingers after catching it from its slide across the tabletop. "Just trying to heighten the suspense… you know, like in the movies."

Ivan just smiles at that, a somber light in his eyes as Alfred tests the gun's weight, trying to discern where the bullet lies. It's closer to where it should be, he reasons after turning it a few times, and lifts it.

_"…are you still considering me worth it?"_ Ivan nearly whispers when he pauses. It's a surprising question, coming from such a hardened man, and Alfred wonders briefly if he was supposed to hear the question at all. The revolver glints against his glasses as he pulls the trigger with a dry laugh.

_Click-click._

"Hell yeah," he mutters once he realizes he's still alive and sends the gun rolling back. What was truth one month ago was still true now and it would stay that way until they both got a bullet. "You're stuck with me pal."

His words bring a soft tilt to Ivan's lips, one of his rarest smiles that Alfred would die for, and the American grins back, watching as Ivan hefts the gun expertly in his hand, rolling it on his palm.

* * *

><p>The months had gone by as a blur, and Alfred had never before felt so happy in his entire life to know such a person as Ivan. Every day that he'd been able to see even a hint of the gunman had been enough to set a smile permanently on his face forever. And as time continued to pass, as it must, Alfred had started to see Ivan more and more often until what once was a rare occurrence became ritual and he'd started to count the dinners with the Russian normal everyday happenings. Life had become too good to be true and reality had a mean bite that festered when it finally struck that day, one month ago.<p>

Ivan had come to him, an hour past his usual time, out of breath but smiling calmly and covered in scratches and bruises from head to foot. He looked like Hell frozen over and smelt even worse, but a warm hug his only response to Alfred's worried questions and gentle treatments as he'd been forced into a chair so Alfred could better fuss over his injuries.

"I am not wanting to kill anymore," Ivan had finally murmured as the American cleaned the cut on his lip. That had shocked Alfred greatly but his inquiry as to why had only gotten him another confusing confession.

"You are making me want to stop, _solnyshko,"_ was all the Russian had said, his eyes bright with a hidden feeling Alfred had no name for, an emotion that made a lump form in his throat and an ecstatic happiness to boil in his gut as he'd pulled Ivan into another close embrace.

When Alfred's laptop had come to life on the countertop of his store, beeping frantically to tell him he had a video message coming in, he'd opened it up, not surprised when the lower half of the Organization's boss's face was there to frown at him. He'd slowly been integrated into the mafia over the past year, becoming their go-to ammunitions expert and an honorary member. Unfortunately with the title came the obligations and Alfred had felt a deep frown starting to pull down his lips.

The orders had been simple: kill the traitor and be generously compensated for the consequences. Ivan had silently handed Alfred his gun, a sad understanding passing between them as the Russian urged him to take the offer, somber with acceptance. Alfred's response had been just as quick and satisfying, and he'd watched without remorse as the screen of his laptop smoked and sparked, the single bullet he'd fired destroying the video, wiping away the gaping mouth of the Boss.

"Well, that could've gone better," Alfred had sighed then, scratching the back of his head while Ivan gawked openly at him. "I guess we're really fucked now aren't we?"

"I am wondering _dorogoy,"_ Ivan had whispered then, wonderment in his voice as he was handed his gun back, "am I really worth your life?"

"You're worth more than that," Alfred had quickly affirmed, beaming with confidence and pride and such a strange sort of affection he had never felt before as Ivan slowly smiled for him, dumbfounded and happy for the very first time in their whole year together. And then Alfred had been enveloped into a crushing bear hug, one that got them both laughing, even as Fate signed their death warrant that appeared weeks later in the form of a red card, with the King of Hearts with a resolute, black 'X' over his face.

Alfred had recognized the death card quickly although he'd only seen a Russian roulette betting game once before, when he'd come to sign the contract that bound his store to the Organization. He'd watched the game dubbed the 'Interrogation' with a young Spaniard member and his Italian bad-influence tied to the other chair, struggling and screaming as his green-eyed gunman just grinned sadly and loaded the revolver, giving it a good spin before putting the barrel to his head. He'd made it five rounds before getting the bullet and he'd been ready for it, smiling all the while. Alfred had felt sick at the sound of the other man's other-worldly scream, his eyes drawn to the Spaniard's bloody smile. He'd realized it was the same that Ivan used so frequently, so empty and sad and hollow without a trace of hope.

He'd fallen for that smile, so hard and fast and whole-heartedly that when they'd come to collect them like lambs to slaughter, he'd been able to hold Ivan's hand and squeeze it firmly without any hint of regret.

* * *

><p>And now, Alfred can see, it is different. Now Ivan is lifting the gun like the Spaniard had and there is a strange spark in his eyes as he rolls it against his palm while Alfred watches, though decidedly not screaming or crying or bound to his chair like the Italian. Their eyes are still locked on each other when they both realize that this is <em>it,<em> the round that will end their chapter.

"My luck is not as good as yours _da?"_ Ivan smiles and Alfred is pleased to see the peace written across his lips as he nods in acceptance. "It is too bad… you are truly the only one I've ever liked…"

He laughs quietly at his own words, but it is what remains unspoken that says the most. That shine is in his eyes again, that emotion neither of them can name, and Ivan smiles at the gun before placing it under his chin, lifting his broad shoulders just slightly in farewell.

"I am wondering," he murmurs, almost tender, "if there will be sunflowers where I am going?"

Alfred can only smile softly, swallowing down the words that will not leave his tongue, before he nods, unable to breathe properly anymore as Ivan calmly pulls the trigger.

The sound is like thunder, the brief flash of the bullet leaving the chamber like lightning. The revolver slips from Ivan's hand and lands with a loud thud on the floor, splashing in a growing pool of blood. Alfred coughs against the smoke that wafts his way but doesn't let his eyes leave the Russian's still form. The televisions erupt into curses and laughter as more money is wasted and consciences are traded in for profit.

"You are the winner," the black-suited man tells him in grim congratulations. "You are free to go."

Alfred can only shrug as the bonds on his legs are cut and he stands, wondering if winning is really supposed to feel like loss and taste like bile. Slowly, he walks forward to retrieve the revolver from the ground. It presses, reassuring into his palm and he straightens, glancing down at the figure slumped in the chair. Ivan is smiling that same soft smile, eyes closed peacefully in forced sleep. He feels a warm wave of relief fill him to his core at the sight, giving the man one last lingering look before turning to the suited man once again.

"Bullet," he orders, holding out his hand. His notices briefly that his fingers are dark with Ivan's blood.

The other looks at Alfred in surprise but the gunsmith doesn't notice as he hands over the round and Alfred loads it into the chamber, turning to face the business men that have gone strangely silent at his actions but start moving their money once again. They know where this is headed as he gives the chamber a good, final spin.

"Second Round," he smiles, holding the gun to his head. "Place your bets."

* * *

><p><em>El Fin.<em>

_Hope you all enjoyed. Please R&R._


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